ceaseless ramblings
by cities
Summary: "Tick, tock. The mouse runs up the clock, but in this story, it never strikes one."


Prompt: Clock

* * *

Tick, tock.

The mouse runs up the clock, but in this story, it never strikes one.

Perhaps because we never get to that point in the story. Perhaps because we don't want to. The mind is a funny thing, and often does idiotic things.

Maybe the worst things come from wishful thinking. Maybe from nightmares. I believe it is the former. The latter is conquerable. Wishful thinking ensnares you, locks you in it's world.

Wishful thinking, according to the experts, is the foremost leading cause of madness in mortals. Except there's only one expert, and Zeus doesn't believe in madness.

Getting trapped in your mind can seem harmless at first, but as we said, the mind does the most funny things. Try not to blink, or the picture will disappear.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

You're late, dearest Alice. Late for tea. Isn't that so horribly shameful?

You should be ashamed of yourself. Except I'm repeating myself now. Maybe I'm going mad. Maybe I already was.

Dr. Bacchus, M.D. says that most cases of madness were there before the glass shattered. Isn't that charming? You could be mad right now, though you don't know it.

The glass often shatters before it can be fixed—obviously, but the glass is subjected to stress before it particlizes. Why do we use glass as our metaphor? Why do you use Perseus Jackson as your hero? Why not Hercules?

Perhaps because no one can live up to the standards of his perfection. Thus, you scorn him, degrade him, turn him into a jackass. Except only the fairies do that—Pug likes to do it all too much.

Jackson is much more human than Hercules. Except it wasn't the style of the myths to be a sociology paper. They explained things, things you and me and him and the rest of the damn ol' world.

One, two; One, two.

Our swords aren't fast enough to kill half-begotten beasts from the very depths of hell itself. Not that those exist—oh. silly me, forgetting about our monsters.

Experts say that monsters are actually less than an eighth of what we have nightmares about. Usually, settings are predominate. Bright, garish, abominable settings.

Perhaps this is because the mood of the setting inspires terror. Would a telekhine be scary if it were at the beach, wearing sunglasses and toting a canvas bag? Very much so.

It isn't fun, settings appearing in your head. Your own personal, fucked up version of wonderland. You'll certainly be late for tea again.

All the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put your sanity back together again.

Oh well. Have fun being mad. It isn't like you don't get benefits. There's no shortage of tea in your wonderland. Except this wonderland is fucked beyond compare, and holds no tea. It's blasphemy, I know, but it's true.

One of these days you must go to dinner with the Mad Hatter. He's the very epitome of your clinicality.

I broke my femur, but you broke your ulna. Which one of us is able to whack-a-mole?

It doesn't really matter, because by now you probably think your floating and blowing bubbles instead of whaling anything to speak of.

My blood is epithelial, but the leading experts say that illusions can only ever be believed by the skeptics. Isn't it ironic?

The mind is a stranger phenomenon than Kokopelli, and believe me, that rain dance ain't there so it'll keep the enemies alive.

Jack and Jill ran up the hill, but you never even made it to the parking lot.

Dearest demigod, please, keep your head, mind, and thoughts out of wishful thinking for the safety of you and your loved ones.

It would be a shame to lose dearest Clarrise, wouldn't it? Settling down won't help though, because no one can settle down an active mind. It is constantly in motion, yet has no equal and opposite reaction, except perhaps, pushing an individual's sanity off of the edge of the earth.

But that is all something we'll cover up with lies, to make you feel good. But you aren't used to feeling good. A pampering to our good friends the muscles. A pampering that floors you.

Getting high probably doesn't help your sanity.

Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, why the fuck are anthropomorphic animals traversing our nursery rhymes?

Not that anything has to make sense. Once, I doctored this owl with a blood cancer type. We talked through the topic of madness. It pertained to nothing yet everything.

The experts say that pretentious randomity is a sign of sanity. The experts say a lot of things I don't trust. They make me go to sleep a lot.

Sleeping is bad, of you have madness. Sleep is the gateway of the evil spirits. Are there good ones, or do they all have that bitter, corn taste? Let's just hope we won't be inebriated at the end of this.

Except we will be.

Ring around the Rosie's, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, the cure isn't in the mask.

Sometimes, children make a better outlet than a full-grown male. Those usually kick your ass.

A wise old owl lived in an oak. A dead cockatoo lived in the surfade

Dropping, dropping, dropping like flies. Good luck not being devoured. We haven't hit one, but we will, someday. Experts say we should look towards the light at the end of a tunnel. What if it's a train?

Shows you how smart experts are.

You walk on.


End file.
